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R/nosleep pasta
I: Cycles Something's going on that I don't entirely understand. In 1981 I adopted a group of children from a halfway home of sorts. The home was for children with violent tendencies, which as you would imagine is not an excellent place to scope for adoption candidates. At the time I was working as a child psychologist, and I had taken an odd liking to the children. I checked with the staff, and given my credentials and my lack of objections in their continued medication, I was given custody of the four children rather quickly. The quadroply met each other in the home, each bonding with each other over their insipid circumstances. After a while, they each adopted the friendship of who they referred to as "Him". By their stories, any reasonable person would have assumed it was merely just an imaginary friend. My wife and I were both psychologists, if anything we could probably help them improve. Life was comfortable. Medication flowed regularly and kept the children in well enough check. Often, I found they ventured into the woods to play with "Him". I thought it was just a harmless phase. They drew drawings of this "Him" frequently. All the same, sort of a hunched over figure that was sort tall looking, wearing what I assume is supposed to be a mask. One day I got a panicked call from my wife - the children were missing. Vanished, into thin air. They were all playing a game about pirates and then - nothing. After searching town for a good few hours I got a call from one of the children - more than three hundred miles away. A police man, rather amused by the whole whimsy, said he found the children gallivanting around town, took the children, and met us halfway in a little town in Pennsylvania. When we questioned the children, they gave standard excuses, that they were just playing a game. They each told me "He" brought them away. The tone of honesty was horrifying. On a few occasions one of the children would overdose on medication. The others always seem to cope with the same mantra, "Maybe it's better (he/she) stays quiet". My wife and I took multiple measures to impede this, but it always happened one way or another. Not even lock and key could prevent these incidents. Eventually, my children were killed. While grocery shopping the house caught fire...neither the children nor my wife made it out. An investigation turned up nothing. It wasn't natural, like an electronic malfunction but it couldn't have been arson. It was as if it just caught fire magically. Flash forward to 1991. Although at this point I'm far removed from the practice, I'm asked for my medical opinions and for various interviews involving my time in Ohio (where I was living at the time) every so often. I've been called everything from a child murderer to a rapist. The Council can eat my ass, busting my rump for this wild goose chase of random pediatric patients. As I was walking down the hallway to the facility's pediatrics ward. I noticed a young boy with sloppy brown hair receiving stitches in his arm. There was some family, the attending nurse, and a police officer present. This caught my curiosity. The boy said his name was Solomon Gad, and he hurt himself playing a game. He plunged himself from a ranger's tower in a park, that he was playing a game and it wasn't his fault...that "He" made him do it. As I pressed on how this "He" was, Solomon couldn't give a straight answer, just that it was called "He", or "Him". I can't help but compare his story to the childrens'. Maybe I am just seeing patterns or possible leads in desperation. I do not care anymore, honestly. He said his first dreams were about wandering through the forest and playing with this "Man". He remembers being lead into a clearing, four mounds arranged in a strange pattern. He asked where he was, and this "Man" said "The Special Place". I arranged with his mother to perhaps meet in a more neutral environment. I arrived at the Gad household around eleven. It was a comfortable house in a quiet neighborhood just outside of the heavily-developed portion of town. Solomon's mother lead me into the kitchen and I found him coloring. He was relatively easy to work with. He didn't avoid the questioning, he didn't duck around corners or advert the situation on hand. I said I wanted to talk about "Him" for a short while. In whimsical nature Solomon described this "Man": Tall, blocky, wearing a strange mask, somewhat branch-like in nature. I remembered my children's various pieces of artwork from over the years. Just before I sat down to this entry, I dusted off my old chest and reexamined the kids' old pieces. Picture books, drawings, short-stories – briefly sweeping over them, there were numerous hints towards this man. Good God, [it's the exact same damn thing](http://i.imgur.com/DXe8KZa.jpg). Solomon seemed to give this entity a manner concerned respect. Accepted inevitability. This worried me a great deal. He didn't seem eager to rid himself of this man. In fact, he seemed kind of excited. He said the Man had a plan for him, that he was going to take him places. Caught up in emotion, I made a foolishly unprofessional decision...I asked the boy if he knew my children, if "He" had ever told him about my children. He said no. Suddenly, the television in the other room exploded into sound, the volume screeched all the way up, and then the whole thing shut down.. Solomon's attention suddenly perked up and he told me that he knew my children, contradicting his previous uncertainties. “They've already been there, Doctor.” Aghast, I pressed him for more information. Been where? His attention snapped, yet again, and he stared at me curiously; he had no idea what I was talking about. I thanked the boy and his mother and was on my way. I promised to be back in touch with them soon. As I pulled out of the driveway I noticed a strange piece of paper crammed into the stick shift. I picked it up, and it was an odd array of symbols. I'd never seen such characters before. [Here's a crude drawing](http://i.imgur.com/hX7JG6U.png) of the scrap. I don't know if that's helpful, if someone could help me decipher it I'd be very grateful. I've been seeing Solomon since he was just a boy, he's a grown man today. Lately, he's been extremely aggressive, anxious. He keeps complaining about headaches and nosebleeds, how anything he touches breaks. Today I get a call saying he's in the hospital. Overdose, leaving a suicide note saying he wanted to "keep quiet" forever. The thought occurs to me that this "Him", if he's real, is something like a virus. It attacks a cell, and when the cell succumbs to its touch, it moves on to the next cell. My children were Man's first cell, it seems Solomon is the next. When it's bored of him, he'll move on to the next target. I think something very bad is lurching back into our world Reddit. At this point, I don't know what to do. II: The Dinner Party (And to Think That I Saw It on Yehowa Street) It's been about a week since I wrote that first entry into this whole affair. I regret only posing a few days ago. Solomon is gone. I don't mean dead or unreachable, I mean he's physically gone. Sometime around 7:06 AM, while undergoing observation, Solomon vanished from his hospital bed. No one was in the room when it happened, but when the heart monitor started flatlining the emergency staff rushed in. The whole place was put on lockdown, given the copious amount of anti-psychotic medication still circulating around his system he could easily be in an extremely impetuous fugue state. Police investigated the room after an entire sweep of the hospital came up empty. All the windows were locked, his phone and wallet were still present, security camera footage at no point recorded him leaving the room or the hospital, and no one but the doctors had access to his room at the time, and they each had an easily confirmed alibi. I've been frantically calling his mother for about three hours now, she's not answering. Around 10:30 I got an email from Solomon. Well, it was Solomon's email address, but I suspect it wasn't Solomon. The [email](http://i.imgur.com/dMIko4B.jpg) contained a rather foreboding message. I took a quick screenshot of the message just in case it inexplicably went missing (I've seen a lot of horror movies) and I called the police. Once I gave them access to my email account they were unable to locate where the message was sent from, and I was suddenly unable to find it on my phone. After they thanked me, gave me a card, and left, I took another look at the screenshot I took of the email. What caught my attention was the second character from the left in the final line, the strange zig-zag squiggle. It was the exact same character as the squiggle on the scrap in my stick shift. The scrap itself had been gone for decades, for God's sake I found it in 1991, but my memory was still clear of it. Because I didn't have the email I couldn't just copy-paste the thing into Google or something, so I'm unclear as to what the message actually says, but whoever wrote the scrap and whoever wrote this email are undoubtedly connected. A few days later I got an email from a noreply IP, saying they might have valuable information. The email told me I needed to return to Ohio in order to retrieve whatever parcel he intended to give me, as it was apparently too risky to send it over mail. Obviously I'm not in a position to just up and drive halfway across the country. I was unable to reply so I guess whoever this sender is can't personally attend to my decline. I've been frantically scanning news sites for anything related to Solomon. A few hours after I got the email there was a raging forest fire around three miles south of town. Police allegedly found a can of gasoline at the epicenter, with it several teeth and a lock of hair, completely undamaged by the blaze. DNA tests came back conclusive. It was Solomon. They didn't find his phone. I can't help but feel more worry than grief. The fact of the matter is, if my hypothesis was correct, whoever killed Solomon will pick a new target soon. My children were taken from me about three weeks before I met Solomon, and it took my children more than thirteen years to succumb to whoever "He" was, Solomon just about 26. I'm desperately grasping at patterns that may or may not have any relevance. That brings us to today. I got a strange letter in the mail with no return address, not even in an envelope. It was an invitation. >YOU ARE CORDIALLY INVITED TO ATTEND A DINNER PARTY AT >25 YEHOWA ST. >RSVP NOT NEEDED >ALONE After the "ALONE" were the strange markings on my email. I was unfamiliar with Yehowa Street, in fact a Google search turned up dick. At long last I just decided to nap and resume making my game plan whenever I awoke. As I slept I had a strange dream. I was walking through a strange forest, somewhat-purple looking trees and gray skies. Eventually, I heard giggling, very familiar giggling. I followed the noise to a small clearing. What I saw shocked me. I found my children and Solomon, just a boy in appearance, sitting in a disjointed circle, looking to the center of their disjointed shape and laughing. After a while of standing in stunned silence and contemplation, I heard the howling wind cease, and be replaced with a dull hum. I tried to ask the children what was happening, but they all simply looked at me and put their fingers over their mouths. I heard a soft popping, a wet gurgle, and I noticed the ground beneath me became soggy. Black. In the center of their arrangement something began to emerge. I heard labored, wet breaths. As the thing's head emerged the children stood up and walked to a separate "corner" of the clearing. By the time the thing is halfway out of the ground I try to make a run for it, but the trees bend and push me back. The dirt had become a black sludge, soon I felt myself begin to sink into it. As the being finished emerging from the ground, the children prostrated themselves before it. It turned around and faced me, and before I had a chance to react I woke up. Only, I didn't wake up on my couch, I woke up under an awning, stone underneath me. As I stood up I found I was before an old, rusted door way. Next to it lay two dilapidated copper numbers, reading "25". I was _at_ 25 Yehowa Street. I walked in and found the wallpaper was peeling off the rotted walls. The entire building was a long hallway. As I hesitantly walked through the hall, my feet made a wet squishing sound with each step, despite the fact that the floor was totally dry. I reached the door at the end of the hallway and opened it. Inside lay an expansive room, totally dark, save for an odd looking candelabra, that laid open a long table stretching from the door to the back of the room (I assume). At the opposite end of the table sat a man who's face was not illuminated, to my right was a man in a suit, whose face was also not visible. The man at the table straightened his form and cleared his throat, "Ah, doctor. We've been expecting you. Please, sit down. Your food is getting cold." I asked where I was, the man at the table said he would explain in time, and once again asked me to take a seat. I sat opposite him on the long table, and the man in the corner brought me a plate with asparagus, mashed potatoes, and a steak. I gently pushed the plate away, and said I wasn't hungry. The man at the table said, "Please, I insist." Once again I affirmed I was not hungry. The man's polite disposition wearied, and he said, "Doctor, I made this just for you, and quite frankly you're being very insulting to me by refusing it. So I insist, have a bite to eat." The man in the corner walked next to me, bent down and whispered, "Eat something. You're not helping your chances." I quietly asked what 'chances' he was referring to, but he simply stood upright and returned to the corner. I sighed and cut into the steak, took a small bite, and in all honestly it tasted divine. I began rudely shoveling the food into my mouth. I began smacking with every bit I took, juice from the steak dropping down my chin. I stopped when the man in the corner seemed to retch. I apologized for being so rude and sloppy, and the man at the table didn't seem to mind at all. He found it amusing. "You really like that steak," he said, "don'tcha? Yeah, most people do. I picked up the recipe in 1940 in Paris, back when the...heh, uh, story for another time." 1940? That can't be right. I wiped my face, swallowed, and once again asked why I was there. The man across from me said, "To have a little discussion" I asked him what his name was, and he said his name didn't matter much these days. At this point, I noticed the man in the corner had moved to the open doorway and closed it. From the dim light outside the room, I could make out a bit of his face…it was red...VERY red! Before I got a good chance to look at him, I heard the man at the table clear his throat. I shot back my glance at him and he continued. "You see doctor, you and I are very similar. While our goals may differ, we share a common interest..." As he spoke, I went to grab another fork full of good. "…we both want what's best for the children." I dropped my fork. "Are…are you the one that sent me the email? About the important information?" He seemed perplexed, "hmm…no, that wasn't me. But is very much like to know this sender's identity as well. Thank you for bringing this up. Now...back to what I was saying..." I heard the chair scoot out and saw the man's lumbering form rise and begin walking around the table. As he passed the candelabra I noticed his strange attire. He was wearing some sort of overcoat, with a red star pinned to his right breastplate. Underneath it, a tarnished undershirt. As he reached my end of the table, I couldn't see anything above his neck. "I need you to do me a huge favor. Stop. What. You're. Doing. Trust me, you'll thank me for sparing you of the burden of getting involved." He gripped my shoulders and I asked him who he was. He chuckled and said, "Don't you recognize me? I'm just...a Man." He started laughing quietly, and then uncontrollably, as he jutted his head into light and...that damn mask. That..._DAMN_ mask! The mask the children always drew...Him wearing. The realization hit me in the gut, as I realized I was looking into the eyes of the man who took my children, my wife...Solomon. I'd like to tell you once I realized this I killed the bastard with my bare hands...I really wish I could, but I didn't. I ran like I had never ran before. As I threw myself against the man blocking the door, I finally got a good look at his face. A sinister red, completely featureless, face. Was it a mask? I don't care. As I bolted down the hallway I shot a look back to make sure He wasn't following. I saw him wobble into the doorway, obvious struggling to breathe in all the hysterical laughter, and he screamed, "Ey! How'd...haha...how'd you like that steak? Yeah, I call that...I call it _PAN-SEARED SOLOMON AU POIVRE_, yeah...yeah, SOL...SOLOMON D'ARABIAN!" before falling backwards, gasping for air, and yet continuing to bellow laughter. I crashed out of that damn building and ran for half an hour. After I finally tripped over a damn rock, I realized how far I had ran. Quickly, I fumbled for my phone and frantically dialed 911 and told them I found a child-murdering cannibal. When I told the operator he was on Yehowa Street, he sighed and told me that prank calling 911 is a crime. As I stammered, "I'm telling you, this is not a prank!", to which I got a snippy, "...and I'm telling _you_, this whole shtick wasn't funny the first thousand times it was called in, and it still isn't funny now!" Click. First thousand times? Even more frantic than before, I bolted back to that damn building. ...and it was gone. Not just the house...the whole damn thing. My mind raced. Images of the events I'd experienced swirled in my head like a comedy troupe all scattered and frantic with no goal to speak of. I sat alone in the dark, and all I could do was laugh uncontrollably...I laughed as I got up, as I went home, as I found those damn scribbles etched into my door, and when I found half an eaten steak on my kitchen counter...laugh, laugh, laugh... and I haven't been able to stop since. III: The Third One with No Title